Simple Gifts
by skitskitpotter
Summary: Christmas may be John Watson's favorite day of the year, but this is his first at 221B Baker Street with the massive wet blanket named Sherlock Holmes. Yet perhaps even the world's most cheerless consulting detective can find a place in his heart for the holidays.


Christmas has always been my favorite day of the year.

I know that's stupid, the kind of thing that naïve children would think. As an ex-army doctor with only an estranged alcoholic sister for a relative, I should see it as nothing more than some day when normal, happy people can sit around and enjoy a warm dinner with their families. But no matter how much I tell myself that Christmas is just another ordinary day, I can't help but wake up every 25th of December with a juvenile grin on my face. I'll never know why. There's just something about the day that calls to mind the scent of pine needles, and the warmth of a fire, and distant memories of a tight-knit home, before a father died and a sister was disowned and a sixteen-year-old ran away and lived in a box under a bridge for a week.

However, I'm grimacing today. When I'm awake enough to see the alarm clock, it reads 4:32. I sigh, wrap a pillow around my ears, and bury myself deeper into the covers. I hate few things more than interrupted sleep.

I'm drifting off when I hear a crash from somewhere downstairs. I jolt up and peer into the darkness, hoping I can somehow divine the cause of the noise just by staring. I jump as it repeats itself and is followed by a very loud string of bangs that sound almost like knocks on a door. Suddenly very awake, I grab my pistol from its drawer and shuffle down the stairs. Inhaling deeply, I rest a hand on the knob and throw the door open, readying the pistol as the cold air comes blustering in. I'm taken aback upon seeing a tall, dark frame outlined against the whiteness of the falling snow.

"I – I – It's about t – t – time you let me in," he says.

"Sherlock!" I cry.

"Y – Y – Yes, obviously."

"You nearly gave me a heart attack…" I growl. I drop the gun and pull him inside by the sleeve. It's saturated with water.

"Look at you, you idiot, you're soaked through!" I exclaim. He's trying to unbutton his coat, but he's shivering so hard that he can barely grasp the plastic. With a frustrated sigh, I undo the coat for him and tug it off his shoulders. "What were you doing out there?" I ask as I start on his waistcoat.

Despite the cold and the fact that he's probably been out all night, his eyes brighten and his cheeks flush in excitement as he scrabbles to open the locket in his hand. A picture of a beautiful young woman is inside. "This will f – f – finally allow me t – to establish a link bet – t – tween the victim and the c – culprit. Crime of p – p – passion," he stutters between his chattering teeth.

"How long had you been out there?"

"Oh, s – since seven last night, maybe, b – b – but what does it matter? The c – case is closed," he says gleefully.

"You could have died," I reprimand him, but I'm too concerned with his violent shivering and the slight blue tinge on his lips to sound at all convincing.

I herd him upstairs and seat him on his armchair. Assuming he'll have the sense to stay put, I grab him a pair of flannel pajamas from his room and the thickest blanket I can find in my closet along with a box of matches. I toss him the mound of cloth and say, "Finish getting changed, I'm going to start a fire."

I'm thankful he's deft enough that I don't end up having to strip him naked, and by the time I've coaxed a decent flame from the dry wood already inside the fireplace, he's fully dressed and wrapped in the blanket. Now that his initial excitement has faded, he's got a pout fixed on his face, and I watch as he inches closer to the fire.

"Cold?" I mumble dryly.

"This weather is r – ridiculous," is his response.

"Yeah, when you've been out in it for twelve hours." I stride into the kitchen, fill the kettle with water, and set it on the burner. "So, this would be twelve hours in the freezing cold, two days without sleep, and three without anything to eat," I point out, upping the heat. "Well, but then, you're Sherlock Holmes. Your mind is invincible, so what does it matter what happens to your body?" I grumble sarcastically, adding a few choice words under my breath to top off my comment.

When the kettle begins boiling to the cracking of the fire, I pour him a cup and add two sugars. It's a habit by this point.

"Here," I say, shoving the mug in his face once I'm back in the living room. He doesn't take it.

"Sherlock," I say, annoyed at his obstinacy.

A distant grunt is my only response. Taken aback, I look down to meet his eyes. I find them closed. His head has tilted to the side, towards the fire that flushes the cold from his skin. His breathing is slow and heavy. He's bundled into himself, with his arms, laden under the weight of my blanket, hugging his skinny knees. Somehow, the sharp angles of his cheeks and chin look gentle. Delicate.

He's fast asleep.

It occurs to me that this is the first time I've actually seen Sherlock sleeping. Passed out after a string of wakeful nights, yes, but never asleep. His expression is almost entrancing. Gone is the usual sharp keenness, the dominating imperiousness. All I can see now is an easy, childlike innocence.

I smile gently at him. Resting the mug on the table, I carefully adjust his neck so that he won't end up with a crick and slide a pillow beneath his head. I know I won't be able to fall back asleep, and so I grab last week's newspaper and settle myself down in the armchair opposite Sherlock.

There isn't much that's interesting in the pages. I've read most of everything in here already. I relax to the heat of the fire and to the soft sighing of Sherlock's breath. His rhythm is soothing, and I'm drifting off when the sun first begins to color the sky with faint blushes of purple. Eventually, the room is bright enough to bestir me, and I force myself fully awake.

Sherlock is still dozing, still curled into his armchair, and I figure I might as well get myself breakfast and prepare some toast to stuff down his throat for later. I drag myself to my feet and plod into the kitchen and foggily fry some eggs. I'm thankful that the toaster dings before I can burn what I'm barely paying any attention to. I pour a glass of milk and bring everything back into the living room.

Apparently, Sherlock is a very light sleeper, because the clatter of the dishes on the table is enough to stir him. He flinches and then allows his eyelids to blink open. He stares around foggily for a few moments and then, seeming to have gained his bearings, his jaw drops in a luxuriant, lazy yawn. He stretches his arms and legs out regally, and I can't help but think he is the very image of a scruffy, recently woken cat.

"Sleep well?" I ask, grinning at his foreign bleariness. "You look comfortable." Surprisingly so, really. I'm pleased that he's at ease enough to leave himself so completely unguarded.

A noncommittal grunt is my only answer. He surveys the room, and his eyes come across the table. "Where's Mrs. Hudson?" he mumbles.

"She's at her sister's," I say, starting on the eggs. "Weren't paying attention when she told us about that?"

"She was supposed to be back today," he says, sounding annoyed.

"So what? People change their plans sometimes, it's not a crime."

"I prefer to have a thoroughly clean table for experimenting, not your sub-par domestic sweeping," he announces with a huff.

He's setting right in, I suppose. Fixing him with a glare, I say, "First of all, you should be happy that I clean up your messes to begin with when you should be doing that yourself, and secondly, Mrs. Hudson isn't your servant."  
"You seem perfectly content to have her make tea," he shoots back.

"Yeah, but she makes tea regardless… well, the point is, the world doesn't revolve around you," I say finally, figuring my point will be lost on him anyway. "It revolves around the sun," I add under my breath.

I have to restrain a laugh at the expression he tosses me at that last comment. "Oh, cheer up and don't be such a Scrooge, it's Christmas!" I say cheerily, to Sherlock's plaintive groan of, "My God!"

After I've finished breakfast, I manage to coax Sherlock into a few nibbles of toast. He makes a fuss, as expected, but he's less ornery than usual. I suppose he's still dulled from his night-long excursion.

I get a call from Holly confirming our date. We've been going out for three months now, and I'm taking her to a movie tonight. We get on really well, and I feel I can be myself around her, but she and Sherlock have problems. They got off on the wrong foot when Sherlock described, in painstaking detail, the circumstances of her last breakup. I've tried to assuage their fallouts, but it's been to little avail.

As I'm hanging up, I hear Sherlock shouting from the living room. Lestrade rung him at nine, and they've been on and off the line ever since. It's about the case Sherlock's just finished. Even though I've seen every piece of evidence from this latest crime, I'm completely lost on their conversation. Sherlock finally ends the dialogue with a cheery farewell insulting Lestrade's entire career. He collapses onto the couch as if their back-and-forth has exhausted him and says, apparently to the ceiling, "That was _tedious_. Doesn't he understand the role of the manhole in this affair?"

As I go about hanging up garlands, it occurs to me that Sherlock is attempting to cancel my rather excited holiday cheer with his own brand of wet blanket. It's not necessarily that he hates Christmas, but more that he loves to act a foil to happiness over something as pedestrian as a holiday. And with his pouting and huffing and eye-rolling, he's really making an effort. His result, however, is to have the opposite effect on me. The childish frustration coming from so dark and cerebral a figure is ironic in a hilarious way.

It's noon when I decide to give Sherlock his gift.

I bought it off the Internet about a month ago. I've had it wrapped in a box covered in nice red paper ever since. I've taken extra precautions to make sure he can't figure out what it is when he goes to shake the box. I've stuffed the thing in layers of Styrofoam and tissue paper so that it's absolutely immovable and won't do any shaking.

Not surprisingly, he shakes his head when I walk into the living room with the box. He's been scribbling chords down on a lined piece of paper he's turned into a music staff, complaining of how bored he is. "Come on, is this really necessary?" he demands.

"Here." I hand him the box, trying to keep from smiling.

As expected, he flips it in his hands, running his gaze over the plain red wrapping paper. He then proceeds to give the box a shake. With a roll of his gray eyes, he grumbles, "A reference book, John? Really?"

It takes me all my willpower to keep my face expressionless. "Just open it."

He heaves an unnecessarily heavy sigh and carelessly tears the paper away. He opens the white box inside, and I can see faint surprise register on his face as he takes in the huge volume of Styrofoam and cloth. He picks away the top layer of packaging and lifts out the slender neck of the microscope. With sudden tenderness, he extricates the rest of the object and rests it before himself. He allows his fingers to run down the body of the instrument, his eyes fixed on the lens.

"It's a professional biological microscope," I recite from what I told myself to remember off the website. "Magnification of 1200x, really not that bad a deal. I thought it looked nice, so."

"…Oh." His voice is strangely quiet. He clears his throat slightly and asks, his gaze still fixed on the instrument, "What, ah… did you say the magnification was?"

"1200."

"Oh."

His façade of offhandedness is far too easy to see past. "You like it," I say teasingly.

He raises an eyebrow haughtily. "It's a high-quality instrument," is all that I get.

"Oh, come on, admit that you do."

"Yes, yes, it's very nice…" He sounds annoyed, but the tiniest flicker of a grin across his lips tells me otherwise. "Well, I suppose protocol dictates I return the favour."

I hear his discomfort saying this, and I realize he probably thinks he has to give me something back. Something he wouldn't have. "It's fine that you don't have a gift, Sherlock," I say quickly. "I mean, there's nothing I could want from you anyway." He does enough as it is, without even realising it. It's enough to see that I've made him happy.

His expression seems to falter slightly, but he just says "alright" and leaves the matter at that. He runs to get some slides from his bedroom.

He's completely expressionless as he examines his old blood samples under this new magnification, but I see the excited quickness with which his hands work at the dials and the twitchy enthusiasm with which his eyes scan the projections. There's an artistic element to the way he looks at a microscope. It's something about the curved line of his back, the illumination of his eyes, the graceful motions of his fingers; the fact that the purpose of all this physicality is focus, focus on the gathering of knowledge. In a strange way, it's beautiful.

He's transfixed by his slides for a couple of hours until he's gone through all of them. It takes him about ten minutes after this to declare his verdict of "bored".

While he was at his slides, I've been doing the tree. We've had it up all week, but between Sherlock's case and a flu epidemic at the clinic, I haven't had time to deck it out. It's now nicely laden with baubles and strands and lights, and Sherlock's announcement reaches me when I've stepped back to admire my handiwork. I go to adjust a few of the branches.

"Oh, will you _stop_ humming those songs? You've been at it for hours…" he growls. "And I'm _bored_…"

Humming? I hadn't realized it. All I know is that I've been smiling uncontrollably almost all day. "What about a game?" I ask him.

"A game." He repeats the suggestion incredulously. I know the look on his face before he vaults up from the couch he's collapsed on to look at me. "A game. You really think I would appreciate a board game? It's called a 'board' game for a reason, John. It's boring."

"Well, what about Cluedo?" I ask. Now satisfied with the tree, I go to sit across from him.

He furrows his brow at me. "What is _Cluedo_?" The derision with which he spits the name of the game is almost amusing.

"It's a board game. A mystery game, you solve a mystery," I say.

Unavoidably, he perks up at the word "mystery". He observes me with vague curiosity before closing his eyes and allowing his head to fall backwards onto a pillow. "Is it suited for my capabilities?"

I shrug. "You won't know until you try it."

He opens his eyes languidly and fixates on the ceiling. Neither of us says anything for a moment, until he turns to me and sighs, "Well?"

I'm halfway to my feet when I realize what I'm letting him do. Sitting down and leaning back, I say, "You could go and get it, you know."

"Why should I?" he exclaims in indignation.

I hold his eyes for a long moment before he heaves a sigh and pulls himself to his feet. He returns in a few moments glaring at me like a brat and drops the box unceremoniously on the table near the fireplace. I join him on the opposite side of the box. I open the lid and set up the board. I find Sherlock watching me intently. "This isn't actually part of the game, Sherlock," I say.

"Don't be ridiculous, John, an entire case can hinge on the smallest of maneuvers," is his reply.

I'm about to attempt to explain, but seeing the intensity on his features, I simply shrug and pull open the bag of playing pieces. "Pick one," I say, taking the plain green figure.

"Why?" he asks, not taking his eyes off the board.

It's difficult for me to restrain a sigh. "Because it's how you play the game." He raises a quizzical eyebrow. Rolling my eyes, I grab the red piece and shove it into his hand. "There."

"Red? I don't like red," he says immediately, almost like being contradictory is an instinct.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, it's a board game piece!" I exclaim.

He gives me a sardonic look. "A scintillating observation."

"Okay, you know what, just put it down where it says 'Start'."

He surveys the board, frowns, and looks back at me. "Why would I begin an investigation there? That must be the most – "

"Okay, Sherlock, listen. This is a board game. That means it's not supposed to be realistic. So just follow the directions."

"But they're illogical."

"They're supposed to be."

He shakes his head in frustration and makes as if to rise. "This is intolerable. Why would I do something that involves the sacrifice of logic?"

"Don't you want to know who did it?" I ask.

I watch him as a comical struggle ensues on his face. Finally, raising an eyebrow haughtily as if to compensate for what he's about to do, he says, "Well, this is going to be disappointingly easy."

I laugh. Just laugh. It's not my usual chuckle or snigger; it's a laugh. Between gasps of air, I say, "That's so… so like you… to do that, with the… with the eyebrow…!"

I have no idea why I'm so happy. It's just… _something_. Something about the fact that it's Christmas, and that Christmas is supposed to be spent with family, and that… in some very, very strange way, Sherlock is my family. And that, for the first time in nineteen years, I'm having a proper Christmas.

He stares at me for some time, and I see his lips twitching oddly. I see he's trying to restrain a smile, and this typical behavior only serves to make me laugh harder. As tears are blurring my vision, I hear a deep baritone join in with my voice. Sherlock is laughing, and it's not just his usual sniff or snort, it's a laugh.

When finally our bout is done, I find that I have to wipe tears from my ears. A couple of stupid comments and lame jokes later, we're back to the board.

It takes more than a half hour to get through the directions with Sherlock's barrage of criticisms, like, "Attempting to avoid being caught by committing the murder of a person you are known to be acquainted with in a crowded, well-known mansion is possibly the worst criminal method I've ever heard of," and, "Oh, yes, died by candlestick. Very realistic that he didn't call for help while being beaten to a pulp," and, simply, "This is stupid."

We go through a few turns. I use the paper and all and check off the suspects and such, while Sherlock simply stares at the board. I honestly have no idea what he's doing.

"Are you just memorizing what's ruled out?" I ask after a little while.

He frowns. "Why would I do that?"

"Sherlock, do you even know how to play?" I question.

"Of course I do, you spent an entire half hour on instructions that read as if they were written by a three-year-old," he sniffs.

I'm about to say something when I realize I might be able to use his clueless stubbornness to my advantage. Yes, the greatest detective in the world is clueless at Cluedo. Shrugging to myself at the irony, I just say, "Alright."

Left now to his own devices, he openly mocks my methods. I just nod and smile until, finally, I've solved the case.

He's about to start his turn when I say, "Um, hold on a minute," and show him the paper. He's had a haughty smirk on his face, and his eyebrows twitch when he sees my results. He takes the paper and stares at it incredulously.

"This… this is wrong." He points to the board. "Clearly, clearly, those marks were made by a knife. Could a _rope_ have made them? No, it's impossible, your conclusion is faulty –"

"I just beat the most intelligent man in London at Cluedo," I say.

"No, no, the conclusion is wrong –"

"I just beat the most intelligent man in London at Cluedo," I repeat, smugly. It's a cold day in hell when one can be self-important in the presence of Sherlock Holmes.

He blinks, shakes his head disbelievingly. "Rematch."

"You admit I won."

"Rematch."

I'm reveling in my small victory when a cell goes off. "Holly," I say, digging it out of my pocket. Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, and I step into the other room.

"Hey," I say, answering the dial.

"Hello, John." I can see her painted in the image of her voice, tall and upright and beautiful. "I'm thinking it'll be crowded at eight, so what if we go earlier, for six?"

"...Oh." I realise the total lack of enthusiasm in my voice has to be offensive, and I say, "I mean, that's fine. That's great." I try to think of something witty to add, but there's nothing. Oh, I'm stupid.

She waits a while to respond, and I know I've made a mistake. "Well, you don't sound very excited," she says finally. I know exactly how she's standing, one hand on her bony hip, her dark hair tossed over her shoulder.

"No, of course I am," I say brightly. "It's just - it's nothing."

"It's just what?" I hear the slightest hint of annoyance creep into her voice.

I know I need to divert the conversation; I can sense that this is going to end up bad. But I can't lie, and so I venture carefully, "Well, it's just that I was going to eat with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson tonight. But it's fine."

"Oh." There's a pause. "It doesn't sound like it's fine." An edge has crept into her tone, something that I recognise as a prelude to many an argument.

"No, really," I rush to say. "I didn't even mean to bring it up. Six works wonderfully. I'll reschedule with Sherlock, he won't even care."

I can see her lips purse as she shifts her weight in between her lithe feet. "You spend an awful lot of time with him," she says after a moment of silence. "More than you do with me, actually. Me, your girlfriend." It's an accusation, and I know it.

I bite my lip. She's right, I can't deny it. I don't know how many dates I've cancelled in favour of my roommate. And it's wrong, I know it is. "I know that I do, and I'm sorry for that, Holly." I tell myself to stop a second too late as I stutter out, "But I - "

"You what?" I've never heard this tone in her voice. She almost sounds tired.

I feel the guilt settle down into my stomach. "It's just that he..." I trail off. I can only think of the way he sounded when he laughed, the way he looked when he smiled - and how many holidays he's spent alone.

He doesn't deserve that. He, of all people, doesn't deserve that.

"John, listen." Holly's voice snaps my attention back to our dialogue. That same heavy sort of exhaustion is still present. "I don't think this is working out."

I stiffen. "What do you - what do you mean?" I feel my pulse picking up within my veins.

I can see that tiny, wistful smile flowering on those rosy lips of hers now. "You're not doing anything wrong, John, really. I'm not angry with you; I'm just expecting too much of you."

"Holly, wait," I begin, seeing immediately where she's going, but she cuts me off.

"I need someone who can give me more of his time. This just isn't what I'm looking for."

"Holly - " I start again.

"It's fine, John." Oh, I've really messed up. "Sometimes two people just aren't compatible. I'm sorry, but... I think it's time we broke up."

"Holly, we can sort this out," I attempt.

She chuckles quietly. "I knew you'd say that," she continues. "But it's alright, John, really. It'd be better for the both of us. I haven't had Christmas with my family in ages, and you've got your roommate; so why don't we just forget about this all and enjoy ourselves?"

"Holly, wait."

"I'm sorry, John."

"Holly - "

But I'm speaking into a dead receiver. I snap the phone closed, heave a long sigh.

This is the longest relationship I've had since I returned from Afghanistan. It wasn't easy to find someone I felt a connection with, and things were good with Holly.

I don't blame Sherlock. How can I? I was the one who went and blurted that out like an idiot. But I'm sad, and angry, and it's in my voice when I reseat myself across from him and say, "Date's cancelled."

I expect either a snide comment or a bored sigh. Instead, all I'm met with is silence. When I look up at him, his gaze is turned thoughtfully to the far wall. "She broke it off," he says.

"Yeah," is all I say, with the slightest confusion.

He's quiet for a moment. "You were quite attached to her."

"Well... yes. I mean, of course." I don't know what he's getting at.

"She seemed to like you well enough."

"I suppose I thought that too - Sherlock, what are you - ?"

"Then I was the problem."

I freeze up. He's spoken plainly, factually - stating a logical conclusion - and yet there is a flicker of something foreign in his eyes. It's barely there long enough for me to see it.

It's guilt. Actually guilt.

I can't think of what to say to him. I'm shocked. Shocked and touched. I want him to know it isn't his fault, that I'd get over it even if it had been, that I don't blame him for anything. But telling him any of this won't help. I consider for a moment, and I find myself saying, "It's alright, Sherlock. Really."

I hold his gaze as he looks at me, his eyes clear as anything. Slowly, my expression breaks into a smile.

His shapes to match it.

I'm bummed when we first return to the game. I've never dealt well with breakups, even though she was so kind about this one. I remind myself that she said to enjoy the evening, and that she wanted to do the same; and so I gradually push the thought of her upset and alone out of my mind. She's fine, probably already sitting down to turkey with her twin sister, and she wants me to be fine, and I've never lost for lack of trying. So I try, and little by little, I find that I succeed. I end up trumping Sherlock at Cluedo again. I was smarter than him twice in one day. That's a complete new record.

It's getting to be evening now, and I'm surprised that Sherlock is still tolerating Cluedo. Well, then again, we're not exactly playing. We're just enjoying ourselves. Just talking together. Laughing together. I don't know what this is, but it isn't a usual interaction. There's something different, today. I can't really describe what it is, but it's to do with Sherlock. There's an element of vulnerability to him. No, not so much vulnerability - of intimacy.

"Boys?"

A gentle voice snaps me out of my thoughts. A knock at our door signals the return of our wonderful landlady.

"Mrs Hudson!" I exclaim, rising to greet her. I kiss her on the cheek and step back. I give Sherlock a look, and with only the slightest begrudging, he's up to welcome her home as well.

She tells us that she's cooking tonight, only because it's Christmas and we shouldn't get used to it. Anything she makes is delicious, and I feel a thrill at the first scent of the turkey. Even Sherlock, his resilience beaten down by his long period of fast, is practically watering at the mouth.

In her style, Mrs. Hudson has prepared a true feast. There are just mounds upon mounds of things - mashed potatoes, stuffing, roasted chestnuts, pies, and, of course, our turkey. She's even got a bowl of soup for Sherlock, who most certainly won't eat anything else. I suppose it's a very cold day in hell right now, because he shocks us both by helping himself to a few slices of turkey.

Holly's certainly surrounded by her own dinner now. She's very kind for wanting me to enjoy mine.

Sherlock doesn't drink much, and so when he does, he's tipsy pretty quickly. By the drowning of his first glass, his face is a pleasant shade of pink, and he's leaning over the table in a somewhat drunken manner. He's surprisingly loose of tongue as well, saying things that he himself would consider offensive in a sober context. Mrs. Hudson is the one who ends up being offended, while I, perhaps somewhat intoxicated myself, find him hilarious.

When we're finished and the dishes have been cleared away, Sherlock and I find ourselves back in the living room. It's dark now, and the roaring fire casts warm shadows on the wall.

Sherlock has been quiet for awhile, and I wonder if maybe he's fallen asleep after his second glass. Truly, it takes him nothing to get drunk, whereas I'm still going strong on a couple of shots of brandy. But I suppose he's awake, because very suddenly, he says, "Get me my violin."

I know I shouldn't, but I oblige him anyway. After all, I'd really like to hear a carol. Perhaps slightly unsteadily, I get to my feet and venture into his closet to seek the instrument. There's a whole mess of stuff in there, things about which I really don't want to know, and the violin is buried under an unsettling mound of debris. As I'm extracting it, I come across a package. It's a plain parcel, vaguely rectangular in shape, wrapped rather crudely in slate gray paper. I would leave it alone, but I see my name messily scribbled on a sticky note attached to the top, followed by the words "Dec. 25 is holiday (check calendar to see which). Give to John".

The note is more than slightly intriguing, and I take the package from its confines and unwrap the paper. I find two sweaters inside, very nicely patterned. There's another note, on top of the first one. Barely legible amidst a sea of poorly erased, hurriedly struck-out words is an address:

"John:  
While being completely disinteresting in thought, you affect one of the strangest tastes in clothing I have ever observed. I do not know where your affection for hideously patterned sweaters originated, but it has made for instructive consideration. You have my thanks for that.  
- Sherlock"

"Somewhat of a poor gift, I realise."

I turn to find the writer's dark frame outlined against the brightness of the doorway. I can't discern his expression, but I can tell he's uncomfortable.

I'm about to refute him, but he goes on. "I assumed you didn't want anything from me, so…" He trails off, shrugs.

I don't know what he means until I remember what I said before. 'I mean, there's nothing I could want from you anyway.' I didn't realise how cruel that had sounded. Like he wasn't good enough to get me something. "Sherlock, that's not what I meant."

He blinks, as if he's surprised that I'm aware of the root of his discomfort. He shifts slightly. "That's... fine, then." He avoids my eyes.

"You don't have to - I appreciate this," I say, seeing that some sentimental comment will be lost on him.

He nods. Just nods, but I know I've put him at ease.

Sherlock does end up bowing through a few carols. I ask for a few encores, and he actually seems happy to oblige. It's midnight by the time I've had enough. Sherlock is staring into the embers of the fire, beginning to die down now. I tell him I'm going to sleep.

"John?" he says.

"What?"

The look that crosses his face is delicate. It shocks me that I could ever reference Sherlock Holmes and delicacy in the selfsame thought, but there is something burning away the usual ice of his gaze that he has never allowed to reveal itself before. It is a sort of softness, a gentle blaze – and as the shimmering of the flames in the fireplace colors the slate gray of his eyes with hints of melting amber, I realize how… _tender_ he looks. How warm. How kind. And with that look in his gaze, a small smile on his lips, his face flushed from the cold, his frame silhouetted against the silently falling snow, he says, very simply, "Happy Christmas."

The warmth that suffuses my heart is of a caste that I know only Sherlock can coax out. Only a man with a heart great enough to match the brain. "And a happy Christmas to you, Sherlock."


End file.
